Sand Castles and Fairytale Endings
Part I: The Introduction
Author: Robbie (gigglgrl26@hotmail.com)
Spoilers: Up through the Season 8 finale "Lockdown." However, bare in mind I might have taken some liberties along the way.
Archive: Ask and you shall receive.
Disclaimer: While I'd love to be able to lay claim to every character in the story, not a one really belongs to me. They are the property of the big shots at NBC, Warner Brothers, Amblin Productions etc …
Summary: Musings on the generality of life from a beloved ER character. Read on to find out whom.
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I inhale deeply, the sweet sea air tickling my nostrils as my lungs expand. Far off in the distance, the sun sets over the water. Brilliant rays of orange and yellow light pierce the still air and reflect over the surface of the deep, dark ocean.
Below me, on the beach, my daughter is kneeling in the sand, meticulously constructing a castle. Her younger sister stands over her shoulder, watching with eager anticipation. The blue plastic pail she clutches between her chubby fingers swings from side to side as her tiny frame literally quivers in excitement. I watch as the elder of the two beckons and her sister flies off, quick as a bee, towards the shoreline. Her feet leave a trail in the sand, marking her path with the indented footprints. For a moment, the tiny child stoops to the water, filling the pail with the salty fluid. She is uncharacteristically still, concentrated entirely on her special task.
Now she stands up, rising to full height on stout, toddler-like legs. She turns around and begins to run back to where her sister is sitting near the crumbling castle. Her feet are hitting the ground in different places, creating a new trail, forever ebbed into the tapestry of the past. She doesn't even notice as half of the water in the pail sloshes to the ground, leaving wet, mushy sand in place of the dry grainy substance that was there only moments ago.
In a short time, the high tide will come in and wash away all traces of her path. And years from now, when we're all gone, no-one will be here to remember the steps my daughter took. Her footprints will be covered with the footprints of other children, and washed away again by the tides, forever wiped from the face of this earth. All traces of it can be taken away, but the past cannot. The fact will always remain that on this very day, she ran across the sand and left a trail. Unlike nearly anything else on earth, the past is something that cannot be changed or erased; be it good or bad, happy or sad.
This thought brings an odd sense of comfort and I sigh in contentment. The entire scene before me is so picturesque. A soft breeze gently caresses the side of my face and blows my hair haphazardly about my face. My daughters are below, content and happy. I'm happy. The sounds of the city are hundreds of thousands of miles away. Hard as I strain, all I can hear is the sounds of the waves crashing, the wind blowing, birds chirping, trees swaying, or children laughing. It's like a slice of heaven here, dropped from above as a respite from the trials and tribulations of daily life.
Hawaii.
When I try to remember events of the past, certain times stick out among the blurred memories. Among the more significant ones, there is Mark's death. At the time, everybody was so consumed with shock and grief, we never took the time to understand things from his point of view. After his death, everyone wondered why he hadn't given them a personal goodbye. He couldn't. In retrospect, the death probably would have hurt even more if he had. It would have drawn it out and made life just that much more hellish.
We all wanted to know why he came to Hawaii to spend his last days. Why not die among close friends in the stuffy hospital you've spent your life working in? Jacked up in some even stuffier room surrounded by flowers and cards that say "Get Well Soon" when you know that you won't. He knew. Mark was a good man, an excellent doctor, always the gentlemen with the open ear for discussion. He was smart. He knew that this was the place to die. That this was the last place to take your family to; a pit stop in a heavenly place on the way to the real thing.
He knew.
I always knew it would be hard for me to come here, knowing that this was where a respected colleague had spent his final days. I knew that I wanted to come here for the experience, to help understand why Mark made the choice he did. And I knew that coming here, I would have to be strong enough for two. Strong enough so that my husband could draw the courage he needed from me. Mark had been his teacher, his mentor, his friend. Mark could do no wrong in his eyes. Mark was like a saint to him, a perfect angel glowing from above on a high pedestal.
Gradually, without meaning to, he's become the new Mark Greene of the ER. The source we all draw strength from. The frame that holds us upright and the glue that keeps us together. He's talented and skilled in what he does. And he approaches each patient with the same rigorous compassion that Mark used to.
You can imagine how shocked my husband was when I suggested for the first time that we travel here. To him, Hawaii had taken on a newer, sadistic image. It was no-longer a place of beauty and relaxation for vacationers, but a place of death and sadness. The first time I'd ever walked on the beaches of Hawaii was for our first vacation together as a couple. It was only further proof of the fact I've never doubted: that Mark's death played a role in us coming closer together. For that, I'm eternally grateful.
Over the years, my husband's views have changed. We come here with the kids every year for the week of our wedding anniversary. It's a tradition. A chance to bond together as a family, to take a break from life, to celebrate our marriage, and to remember Mark Greene.
My eyes drift back down towards where the girls are playing. I look to see how the castle is coming along. They've dumped the water on a pile of the sand, making it wetter and easier to mold. Together, they work to shape the pile into a castle.
I've never understood the childhood obsession with castles. Most castles are large looming pieces of architecture with dark, ominous insides. Hardly an ideal choice for a young lady's dream house. Maybe it's as a result of every little girl's dream to be swept off her feet by a dashing young prince high on an equally beautiful white horse and be taken away to live as a princess. Perhaps innocent story-tales like Snow White or Cinderella are to blame for these silly notions. Stories that end in "Happily ever after …" as the lovely woman rides into the sunset with her very own Prince Charming. These are the same harmless stories that we raise our children on from infancy. We hand our hard-earned money into the greedy hands of large corporations like Disney© and Warner Brothers© that produce the motion pictures and market the merchandise, without a second thought.
For what? Life sure isn't a fairy tale.
No matter how you dissect it, life just doesn't work that way. Many people find happiness, and there are those that never do. Some people find happiness that is shortly followed by sadness, and some experience the reverse effect. The truth is that there are very few people who never struggle with bouts of sadness, depression, or depravity. Some for their whole lives, some only for days or hours. But life isn't a fairy tale. It would be too simple, too boring, and too bland.
It wouldn't be life.
What would life be without a little spice to add some flavor? If there was no sadness, there could be no joy. Without a basis of comparison, there's no scale on which to gauge feelings. There would be no feeling at all; just a bunch of people walking around in permanent vegetative numbness.
Not like I should be one to talk. I've certainly had my share of disappointment in life. From the day I was born, my life has been difficult …
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To be Continued? You tell me.